


The Queen and the Cannibal

by BottleofInk



Category: Hannibal (TV), Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Cannibalism, Food, French, Goblins, Grey!Sarah, Magic, Magical Creatures, Magical Sarah, Murder, Not a romance, Sarah kills people, Sarah/Hannibal friendship, discussions of mythology, fae, fairytales - Freeform, not really anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BottleofInk/pseuds/BottleofInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A careful dance between two intelligent people and the beginnings of a strange friendship.</p><p>Sarah Williams is Hannibal Lecter's patient, and while she behaves like a perfectly normal, well-to-do young woman, he suspects there's something more there.</p><p>And in the background of all this something else is brewing, a dark magic born of old fairytales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Deliberately Cracking Façade

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that's been knocking around my head for awhile. I'm not sure how well I've executed it, though. Any corrections or suggestions are welcome.
> 
> This is set just before the events of the Hannibal TV series, and about twenty years after the events of Labyrinth. While I know Labyrinth events are generally assumed to have happened in 1986, when the film came out, for this story they'll have happened around 1996 or so. So if Sarah was about 16 then, she'd be in her mid-thirties for this fic.
> 
> Usual warnings for cannibalism and murder apply. Sarah is pretty grey, and may go dark before the end of this. Expect magic and otherworldly creatures. And, of course, Jareth. Will may make an appearance too, I'm really not sure.

She has been seeing him for a little over a month now, and has yet to tell him anything beyond what lays on the surface of her mask.

She wears her façade beautifully; he is more than willing to admit this (privately, to himself, of course, for he doesn’t desire to let out her secret). He suspects, in fact, that if he didn’t wear one himself, and carry such familiarity with them, he might almost have been fooled.

This amuses, and interests, him.

She says everything correctly, though. Speaks highly, and lovingly, of her family; admits to the appropriate amount of chagrin for her actions when her father remarried, speaking self-deprecatingly of it, but not to such a degree for it to be anything but acceptable regret for teenage actions.

He knows, as she talks, that she is getting a feel for him. She is waiting, and learning, before she says anything but what is to be expected. It is a careful, but enjoyable, dance. 

She has friends, both at work and outside it. He knows they aren’t close, however, even if those friends may believe otherwise. She is going through the motions, as he does, of having a social life to avoid suspicion.

When asked about love, she remarks that she is unlucky in it. He suspects, however, that this is a deliberate choice on her part. She explains, briefly, some of her past relationships, and it is clear none of her partners were suited to her. She chose them, he thinks, for that reason: so that she may use the bad relationships as a reason to focus on work and ‘wait for the one’ rather then actively pursue such a thing.

It is artful, in a way.

There is something she wants to talk about, though, and it sits just beneath that careful façade. 

This session, which is on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, she greets him with a little less of her manufactured cheerfulness. She is tired, almost bored, and it shows.

He suspects she intended it to.

Nonetheless she is, as always, polite. She shakes his hand, asks after his health. Her interest in the answer is genuine, but it has been since the first time she asked. Still, he feels appropriately flattered.

She is dressed in slightly more expensive clothes than usual, the dress a touch too formal for their meeting. It’s black, the skirt swirling just below her knees. She has always walked subtly like a queen, but today it is pronounced, and the dress suits it.

She stands by the window in his office with her hands clasped behind her back. He takes his usual seat, crossing his legs as he watches her.

It is only a few moments before she speaks, “I’ve been learning French.” She turns to face him, her face carefully guarded, though not, specifically, against him. She is still thinking, he understands, and using this topic for idle conversation until she has finished.

“A beautiful language,” he says, “what do you think of it?”

“It’s strange.” She replies, finally taking her seat. “Different from English in many ways, it seems a very illogical language. Though,” she laughs delicately, “English is far from logical.” 

He nods his head, inviting her to continue.

“I think the hardest part, right now, is remembering the genders, and the different forms of words.” She smiles ruefully, and it almost touches her green eyes. “But I can say ‘ _Je voudrais du thé, s’il vous plaît_ ’. That will be useful when I’m next in France, at a café.” 

Her pronunciation, while slow and careful, is flawless. He tells her as much. She accepts the compliment graciously. 

“If you need someone to converse in French with,” he says, “I am more than willing to be of service.” Her eyes twinkle, a little of the boredom melting away.

“Thank you,” she says, “I would love a chance to do so. It will be useful to talk with someone unafraid to correct me.” 

He nods his head slightly in agreement.

For a moment, they are quiet. She settles back in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap. There is a certain kind of dangerous grace about her, almost like that of a predatory cat. Or a warring queen, he supposes. She does remind one strongly of royalty. 

“What do you think of fairytales?” She asks, and something in her voice has changed. Her accent, normally, is as American as anyone else in this country, but the question that leaves her lips carries exotic notes to it, like some long-forgotten spice.

This is interesting, he thinks. This is the first question that might lead beneath that façade. He suspects it won’t go far, though. She is bored, but not so bored to give the game up this soon.

“I think they’re a necessary part of society and growing up.” He says, carefully, “They teach children about monsters, and they give us a glimpse into our own history.”

She considers his answer, tilting her head so that if her hair weren’t in its careful bun it might have fallen across her face. Her green eyes are thoughtful.

“I agree,” she says, “they are quite necessary. Though I do prefer the less sanitized ones,” she gives an almost wicked smile (almost, because she will not entirely remove her mask, but the smile sits on the edge of her eyes and he notes it, filing it away for later consideration), “not the Disney versions full of dancing princesses and forgiveness.” 

“You prefer that Cinderella’s step-sisters have their eyes pecked out?” He asks.

She studies him, still smiling, though the smile has lost the wicked glint. “I prefer the fairytales were we are not taught to forgive unconditionally. Punishment is – or should be - a necessary part of life if you are cruel, or rude.” She says the last part with a careful amount of ruthful frustration. 

“But perhaps that’s my own distaste for impoliteness speaking.” 

He does not comment, waiting for her to continue with the topic or pick a different one. She studies her hands for a moment, her dark brows knitted together. Once, she opens her mouth as if to speak, but thinks better of it. 

Eventually he gathers that she does not know how to go on, and while the silence is not uncomfortable, he thinks to break it all the same.

“How is work?” He asks, a typical question. It is an expected one, though.

She shifts her gaze from her hands to him. “Work is going well.” It bores her still, he sees. She works in some high-up position at a publishing house; she has never specified which, or what her position entails. It is not a topic she finds much interest in. “I’m considering taking a vacation, though. We’re expected to, one mustn’t overwork oneself.”

He notices the shift in how she normally speaks; the admittance of doing something because it is expected. He notes her questioning gaze, her silent question of whether or not he picked up on it. He quirks a brow, but says nothing.

It is a careful dance, after all.

“Where do you think you will go, for your vacation?” He asks. 

“France, perhaps. Paris may be a cliché, but I would enjoy seeing it. The artwork in the museums alone would warrant such a trip, I’m sure.”

They continue the rest of the meeting in this fashion. The conversation is careful, but she displays holes in her façade purposefully. Not enough for him to glimpse beneath it, of course, but enough to reveal that it is not cemented, irremovably, in place. He acknowledges each of these displays silently, and watches her equally silent pleasure in his noticing.

At the end of their hour her boredom has mostly slipped away. She is still tired, though, just slightly.

As he walks her to the door he makes a decision, because he enjoys their dance and wants to see it continued.

“Would you like to come to dinner?” He asks, politely. “We can practice your French at the table; I will make a suitable dish.” He smiles.

She regards him for a moment, eyes sparkling. She makes no awkward fumble to ask if it’s a date, she’s smart enough know it isn’t. Nor does she remark on what may or may not be proper: they are above such things.

“I would enjoy that very much.” She says.

“Is 9 o’clock Friday acceptable?” He asks.

“Yes, that’ll be perfect. Shall I bring wine?” Her eyes sparkle again, playfully, and her rosy lips quirk in a smile.

He returns the smile with a careful, though warm, one of his own. “Certainly. I think a white will best suit the dish I have in mind.”

She nods her head in understanding before stepping out into the chilly air, “White wine it will be.” she says, “Thank you very much for the invitation, Dr. Lecter. I’ll see you Friday.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Williams. Have a safe drive.” 

She smiles one last time before walking to her car and leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Je voudrais du thé, s'il vous plaît.' should translate to 'I would like some tea, please.' unless I have dreadfully misunderstood my French grammar.
> 
> I hope I portrayed Hannibal believably. I struggled a bit with the end, I wasn't sure what the best way to have him invite her to dinner was. I'm dreading trying to find the right French recipe to go with white wine, so if anyone has any suggestions, please give them. I'll be very grateful.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at: http://niceandaccurateravenclaw.tumblr.com/


	2. Dinner and Pomegranates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A confession: I don't care for wine, which is why the wine isn't described at all, basically. I've also never actually had boudin blanc, which is why it isn't really described either.
> 
> Also, trying to write this chapter was dreadful. I hated it. I really wanted to skip ahead to the fun stuff, but wouldn't let myself, so this chapter is kind of filler-with-a-bit-of-information in it.
> 
> I did go back and slightly fix up the last chapter, by the way. I fixed that weird hanging "It's Wednesday" line, changed the 'Mr. Lecter' to 'Dr. Lecter' and took out his wondering about whether or not she's a killer, at the suggestion of a friend of mine.

When she was in her early twenties, she’d spent some time researching old fairytales. One thing that most of them had seemed to agree on was that brushes with fairyland must result in change; small or large, one cannot remain the same after venturing there.

She is standing barefoot in her wine cellar, studying the bottles before her. Around her, and in the house above her that is probably too large for a single person, small creatures make noise. Something shaped like a cat brushes against her leg, purring.

Sarah Williams had long ago given up trying to avoid the creatures that come to her. Besides, they keep her company.

There is a dusty bottle of chardonnay that catches her eye. The label says it’s really too expensive for a casual dinner between acquaintances, but she thinks Dr. Lecter will be able to appreciate the flavor, and it’s unlikely she’ll ever drink it on her own. She prefers wine humans really aren’t meant to get a hold of.

Bottle in hand, she climbs the steps back up into the house. The cat-creature follows her, blending in and out of the shadows at will.

A brounie greets her in the kitchen, licking honey from a spoon. She smiles at the creature, though she can’t help but think they’ve started showing up earlier and earlier, as the clock reads that it’s just gone 8pm.

She has half an hour to prepare, and another half an hour’s drive to take her to Dr. Lecter’s house for dinner. She sets the bottle on the counter next to her purse and keys and goes to finish preparing.

When she regards herself in the full-length mirror of her bedroom, the soft green dress she has chosen to wear lying on the bed behind her, she considers again the possibility she has ceased to age. She has suspected this for some time, but it isn’t something she can particularly gather proof on; besides the fact that some five years ago she stopped noticing the small details of her body changing. Her skin, hair, face, it all remains the same.

It isn’t something an outsider would likely notice, not beneath makeup and clothing, but to someone who is familiar with their own body, it seems blatant.

She wonders what she’ll do if another five years pass and she’s still the same. How long before people start to notice? How long before this charade of normalcy falls down around her?

With a thoughtful hum, Sarah picks up the dress from the bed and pulls it on. She slips on her heels, ignoring the playful laughter of the goblins underneath the bed, who have never grasped why anyone would wear such things.

You’d think they would, given their king and his boots.

///

Hannibal has prepared boudin blanc with leeks and black truffle-flecked cream sauce. It will be, as everything he makes, a delicious dish. The rude customer from a coffee shop he occasionally frequents, who had been a squat man with an angry face, makes sausage suitable for the dish.

For dessert there will be chocolate silk cake with pomegranate sauce, and a few of the flavorful seeds sprinkled over top to complete the look.

At 9pm exactly, Miss Williams knocks on his door. She greets him with a smile and offers him the bottle of chardonnay to chill in the fridge. He notes the label, but says nothing.

She wears a small cloak instead of a jacket, which he hangs in the hall for her before they enter the dining room. They exchange the usual polite pleasantries. He learns that nothing of particular interest has happened since he saw her last on Wednesday, and tells her the same. 

There is still that slight look of world-weary boredom in her eyes, but the smile that tugs at her lips when he says something amusing is genuine. 

Soon, it’s time to eat. He pours them each some of the wine before setting it to the side, and explains the dish to her – even goings so far as to explain that boudin is a word for a specific type of sausage in France and other parts of Europe, as he remembers that she’s learning the language.

He watches her carefully as she takes her first bite of the sausage. She chews it carefully, and turns her green eyes to his as she does. He thinks he sees something in them, some understanding of what she’s actually eating. 

It would not be terribly difficult to kill her, he thinks, wondering if he’ll have to. A knife cut to the throat – his hand almost strays to the dinner knife lying in front of him. He thinks it would be a pity, as he rather likes her, in his own way, but he wouldn’t hesitate – 

“This is very good.” She says, and smiles. There’s no fear in that smile, or malicious intent, nor even the faintest hint of calculation. Her eyes have lost whatever understanding he thought he saw. Hannibal relaxes, slightly.

“Thank you.” He says. 

Her smile turns playfully, “I think I’m the one who should be thanking you, Dr. Lecter, for this delicious meal. Certainly I couldn’t hope to create something of this caliber. I believe in French I would say ‘merci beaucoup’, yes?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, “you’re correct.” He picks up his glass, swirling the wine and scenting it slightly before taking a sip. It truly is a wonderful bottle. He tells her as much, and she ducks her head slightly, letting out a warm chuckle. “I’m glad you like it. I had hoped you would, I fear I’m not very good at appreciating fine wine like this.” She says the last part like there’s a hidden joke there, but Hannibal doesn’t comment.

“That’s a pity.” He tells her. Sarah nods her head in agreement.

They continue their light conversation until dessert, when Hannibal retrieves the chocolate cake. 

“How beautifully you present these.” She comments, studying the delicate drizzle of sauce over the dark of the chocolate cake. “I do love pomegranates as well.” 

Hannibal takes his seat again. “I’m glad,” he tells her, “they are one of my favorite fruits.”

That same playful smile overtakes her face, and Sarah says, “Not, I hope, because of the story of Hades and Persephone?” She indicates one of the seeds with her fork, “If I eat this, Dr. Lecter, will I remain here ‘til Spring?” Her tone is entirely too playful to be taken as anything but a joke, and Hannibal laughs lightly.

“No, not at all.” He assures her. “Though you are welcome for dinner at any time.”

“Merci, Dr. Lecter.” Sarah says.

Hannibal sips his second glass of wine before saying, “Please, Miss Williams, feel free to call me Hannibal.” 

“Then you must call me Sarah.” Sarah says.

He agrees.

“Did you know,” she says after they’ve taken a few bites and she’s expressed her love of the sweet dessert, “that there is speculation that the apple in the Adam and Eve story was originally a pomegranate?”

Hannibal tilts his head thoughtfully, “I believe,” he says, “that the forbidden fruit has been speculated to be many things besides an apple. But certainly the idea of it being a pomegranate is an interesting one. I believe the fruit is depicted often in some Christian artwork.”

“I think there it was intended to represent Christ’s suffering. In most other cultures, though, it’s a symbol of fertility and other such concepts.”

As she speaks, Sarah finishes her dessert, and takes up her nearly empty wine glass. It is her third, but she doesn’t seem to be effected by it. She sips the gold liquid, looking thoughtful.

“It is interesting how much meaning we assign to things like fruit, isn’t it? Both culturally and personally.” She says.

“Do you assign much personal meaning to fruit, Sarah?” Hannibal asks curiously. 

The young green-eyed woman, who sits so calmly with her nearly empty glass of wine, grants him an odd smile, the sort of smile one gets when thinking of events past that one still isn’t sure of.

“I have always,” Sarah says, “rather thought of peaches as indicating desire and the trappings of youth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: possibly Jareth, possibly stuff about Sarah killing people. We'll see.
> 
> 'Merci beaucoup' is 'thank you very much' in French. I apologize if the grammar is off.
> 
> Brounie is a variation spelling of brownie, which are small fairy creatures known for cleaning houses so long as gifts of porridge or honey are left out for them (in some versions, milk is acceptable). They usually work late at night and don't like being seen, but I figured that for Sarah, these things wouldn't apply since she isn't, well, normal.
> 
> If there's any mistakes in this chapter, feel free to let me know. Merci!


	3. Boots and Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah, her first murder, and Jareth. In that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to do both things I was thinking about last chapter. Here we have Sarah remember her first murder, we learn a bit more about her power, and Jareth shows up and gets handsy - because let's be honest, Jareth was bound to get handsy.
> 
> Posting this chapter is kind of tying me to this path for the story, which sucks a little bit. I kind of wanted to hold off on putting Jareth in until some big moment... but that would have involved waiting.

Sarah Williams saw people’s dreams, fantasies, and their daydreams. She saw these as shadows across their faces or dancing lights in their eyes. And it was surprising what dreams would reveal about a person.

For example, she knew that the girl at the grocery store who checked her out wanted to be a hero. She wanted to save people and make up for the brother she’d lost.

She knew that one of her male work associates wanted nothing more than to seduce Sarah, to make her his own. She knew in his idle time he entertained, in equal measure, vile fantasies of domination and a dream of getting a house somewhere with her.

And Sarah Williams knew that Hannibal Lecter dreamed of death. And not only death; he dreamed of killing. In fact, she recognized some of the murders in his dreams as ones she’d seen on the news.

And she knew what she’d eaten the night before last. She’d recognized the taste of human meat on her tongue. It had reminded her, briefly, of blood running down her throat – of moonlight and magic – of _power_. Of biting into the heart of a man, drawing his life essence out – 

Sarah shook herself, staring down at the tablet in her hand. A French lesson looked back up at her, reminding her of the _normal_ things she was meant to be doing. Reminding her of this careful mask of normalcy she kept.

The memory of that night slipped over her, though. It seemed like she could smell the summer air; feel the heavy heat on her skin. Like she was right back there.

It had been her first kill, when she was only eighteen. She had been drunk off of fairy wine and had gone for a walk in the dark with goblins gathered around her heels. They’d wandered into a large park, and in the dark there a man had tried to grab her – unable to see the creatures who clustered all around her.

It must have been the goblins who slipped the knife into her hand, with its wicked sharp edge and curved tip. She had reacted without thinking, had laughed even – she’d had so much of the wine, it made everything feel like a dream.

She had stabbed the knife into his throat, and had looked down at him afterwards, and down at her clothes, her jeans and baggy shirt, stained with blood that shone black in the moonlight, and smiled.

It was then that she’d started to feel the magic creep across her skin like crackling energy. The goblins were joined by people who reminded her of Jareth, tall and powerful – human in appearance but not. _Fae._

They had laughed, too. Everything had smelled of magic and spice and honeysuckle, and blood.

 _“Eat his heart, Sarah.”_ They had said, and she had wondered later if it was some strange initiation rite.

She didn’t see who helped her cut the heart out, had only felt strong arms guiding her when she’d slipped to her knees beside the body, the grass soft and sticky with blood. 

Now, she supposed it was probably Jareth who had helped her. And certainly it seemed like his voice had murmured something in her ear, some sweet nothing, or some encouragement, but she didn’t properly remember.

She did remember, in startling clarity despite the dreamlike quality of the rest of that night, the weight of the heart in her hand, and the way it had given out under her teeth, and how the taste of blood had blended with the residual flavor of wine on her tongue, sweet and powerful and intoxicating. 

The body was found later the next day. Sarah was never suspected for the crime, or even questioned. But she had expected as much – she didn’t think her friends would let such a thing happen. Two of the people had seen her home with her little following of goblins. They had washed her clean of blood in a bath she only remembered as being milky in color and tucked her safe in bed, leaving something like glitter in their wake. She remembered, faintly, them singing to her – a lullaby as she slipped away into dreams of hearts and blood. The goblins had slept on the bed, and Merlin had lain at the foot, all of them like strange guards.

The tablet was dark, and so was the world beyond the window of her library. The low-lighting glinted off a glass case in the back corner, where rested the very knife from her memory.

Quietly, Sarah got up and went to look at it. She’d used it a handful of times since, for the same purpose it originally came to her. Though it had been some years since she’d done anything, and the last time was before she moved here.

She trailed the tips of her fingers over the glass, thinking. She knew the main drive behind her current actions was boredom, she knew she was growing restless. The itch for adventure, or action, or _something_ , _anything_ really, had settled deep into her bones.

She hadn’t originally gone to Hannibal with the intention of this game she was starting, but when she realized what he was, the temptation had gotten hold of her, and grown to be too much.

Something in the room changed then, she felt it. With quick fingers she opened the case and grabbed the knife, turning to look behind her at the library. Outside, a roll of thunder sounded.

A sarcastic thought slipped through her mind, ‘ _typical_ ’, it said. ‘ _So dramatic._ ’ She shushed it.

She hadn’t properly seen Jareth since she left the Labyrinth. She hadn’t strictly ever called for him, but part of her had expected him to show up, when she’d grown enough to desire such a thing.

Adjusting her grip on the knife handle, Sarah took a step forward. It was possible it wasn’t Jareth, she supposed. If someone else had invaded her home she would slit their throat and feed them their own fingers, in whatever order seemed best.

“Be careful, precious.” He said, right into her ear, lightly wrapping his gloved hand around her wrist so that she couldn’t move the knife. As if she would have.

Well, she might’ve; to see him jump away.

He pressed against her with such familiarity, as if they had done this a thousand other times. It was clichéd, she thought, but also true. He knew how to fit against her, and his other hand, which had slid across her stomach at the same time he’d taken hold of her wrist, seemed entirely comfortable there.

“You might poke someone’s eye out. Isn’t that what you mortals say?” His breath, which blew cold against her cheek, smelled like honey and summer. He sounded teasing, and his voice hadn’t changed at all.

She decided not to mention that she didn’t think she was quite mortal anymore. Instead, she pressed back against him, thinking that two can play his game.

“Yes, it is. But I’d do rather more than poke your eye out, _darling_.” Though Sarah didn’t notice, her voice got that same exotic note to it that Dr. Lecter had noticed in his office. It slipped easily off her tongue, like it belonged there.

Jareth chuckled, and she felt the vibrations of it along her back as he slid his hand up around hers and pulled the knife from her grasp. She didn’t fight him, if for some reason something went wrong she had more ways to dispose of him than a knife she suspected he had originally given to her.

“I have missed you, Sarah-mine.” He said, setting the knife back in its case before pulling her closer against him. 

She still couldn’t see him, given their position. She decided to remedy this, and twisted around in his grasp. She felt his amusement as he let her, and his excitement, low and controlled.

He hadn’t changed at all, still wild-haired and handsome. Still regal, still magical. Still very much a King, though he wore no crown. He was wearing his feathered cloak though, and she thought idly that it quite suited him.

To Jareth, Sarah had changed quite a lot. She had lost the baby-ish look of youth, had matured into a beautiful woman, and in her green eyes something new sparked – something dark and intoxicatingly interesting.

“You’ve certainly taken your time coming to me.” Sarah said, frowning at the height difference between them. She was barefoot, and Jareth, as was his habit, wore heeled boots.

“You certainly took your time starting the next chapter of our story.” Jareth replied, pressing his hands to her back, exploring. 

Sarah tilted her head, “What do you mean?” She asked, putting her hands on his arms. He smirked with amusement.

“How important do you think stories are to me, precious?” He leaned forward, closing what little distance had existed between them. Subtly, Sarah narrowed her eyes and pressed the lower-half of her body to him.

If he thought she was still that innocent 16-year-old who didn’t know what to do with a handsome man, he was wrong, and she would very much enjoy correcting him.

“I’d dare say they’re very important. What does that have to do with chapters?”

She didn’t feel them move, but the next instant they were sprawled across the couch, and Jareth was grinning up at her. She noted, when she glanced back to where they had been, a faint glint on the floor like glitter.

“This is both a chapter and an individual story, Sarah. A story between yourself and the mortals, and the next chapter for you and I, the chapter were I finally get to steal you away.” He grinned at her, a wicked grin full of teeth and magic, and lust.

Leaning down so her lips were nearly on his skin, Sarah murmured, in a voice she’d used before to make men crumble, “Is that why you’re being so handsy?”

Jareth laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if that seemed like an abrupt ending. I was pretty much done with the scene. I hope it doesn't seem like Sarah was too passive about Jareth being all handsy, too. I figured she got some amusement out of and it was also, you know, Jareth, someone she's certainly desired for a long time.


	4. We are Tempted by Storms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a stupidly short chapter, but it was never going to get written otherwise. I really ought to stick to one-shots, I'm not good at prolonged play in other people's worlds.

It is sunny, and that sun shines through her kitchen window onto a bottle of wine. It’s fairy wine, better than the stuff the goblins usually bring her – from a more protected part of the castle.

There is a peach on the counter next to it, ripe and yellow-pink in color, smelling just a little of foreign, magic soil. An unmistakable signature.

She picks up the peach first, rubbing the tips of her fingers across the fuzzy skin. The first thought across her mind is about old stories of fairyland, where a single bite will trap you. The second thought is about masked balls.

She takes a bite, letting the juice run down her tongue. She hasn’t had breakfast yet, and the peach will do. With her free hand, quick long fingers, she takes up the bottle, studies it, and then pads down to the wine cellar.

Today is her meeting with Dr Lecter. And today she’s going to bring him a liver. Human, naturally. But she won’t tell him that. She’s going to frame it as a thank-you for the wonderful dinner.

She thinks she’ll tell him it’s cow, or pig, or something equally common. Watch his eyes light up in recognition of the meat, and the lie. It’ll be fun to watch and see what he does.

She doesn’t think he’ll try to kill her, not yet. Not without finding out why she’d do such a thing.

 

The man she decides to kill is picked at random. He’s on the other side of 40, badly-dressed and smelling of car oil. When she takes her walk after breakfast, she sees him being mean to a dog.

Sarah has a soft spot for dogs.

She kills him quickly and efficiently – slits his throats with her favorite knife, watches his garbled cries die with him, and then cuts out the meat that she wants. The carcass she sends off with goblins, to be fed to what creatures desire human flesh.

It’s interesting the friends one can make when one supplies a certain type of food on occasion.

She packages the liver in butcher paper and tucks it in the fridge until she’s ready for her meeting. Then she reads for a few hours about cannibalism.

 

Jareth is waiting outside her door when she comes out to leave, a drizzling rain that’s begun parting around him like someone was holding an invisible umbrella.

Perhaps they were.

“Thank you for the wine.” She says, because she’s polite. Jareth smiles – smirks, really. “I’d noticed some was going from my storerooms,” he remarked, walking towards her in that dangerous way of his. It’s slightly less impressive now, when she isn’t a teenager – when she is someone who could, if she desired, walk the same way, like a predator stalking prey.

“I can’t help what the goblins do.” Sarah lies, and passes him to put her bag in the car. 

The drizzle doesn’t reach her either. She doesn’t comment.

Jareth had left the other night without fanfare. In fact, to Sarah’s embarrassment, she had drifted off to sleep after a few hours of discussing the Underground. It had been slightly out of character for her. He hadn’t elaborated further on the concept of stories and chapters.

He seems to be considering something, as she turns to face him. 

“You could spark things to move faster, precious. You could make this story burn, create a grand storm to ride out on.” He moves towards her, his boots clicking on the concrete walk. “We could show these people what you’re capable of, and have you home in time for supper, so to speak.”

Sarah looks up at him, and hums under her breath. The liver, she thinks, is already a kind of spark. But she can envision what he’s suggesting – it reminds her of blood and grass. She can see how he and she would enjoy themselves, before retreating. The havoc they could wreak, only to escape before these mortals could ever catch them.

“And what do you suggest, darling?” She asks, and returns his smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter after this may end up being the last chapter. I'll probably end up writing one-shots in this 'verse or in the general Hannibal/Labyrinth crossover vein. We'll see.


End file.
